


I get kinda hectic

by brynnmck



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Costumes, Dirty Talk, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Humor, Frottage, a hint of roleplay, a soupcon of jeedos, appropriately inappropriate, none of you are free of sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24925537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: One thing Brienne has learned over the course of her career as a costume shop owner is that every single conceivable costume has a hilariously ridiculous "sexy" version. She's seen all the usual suspects, of course: sexy nurse. Sexy vampire. Sexy firefighter. Then there are the less-common, more nightmare-inducing ones: sexy hamburger. Sexy teddy bear. Sexy banana (half-peeled for your pleasure). She'd even found a sexy speculum costume one night at a party after several glasses of wine and a double-dog-dare from her friends.But she's never met anyone who could come anywhere near Jaime Lannister for making even the most mundane costumes seem as filthy as possible.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 107
Kudos: 266





	I get kinda hectic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NaomiGnome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaomiGnome/gifts).



> A belated birthday present for the entirely delightful NaomiGnome, whose combination of artistic talent, wicked sense of humor, peerless turns of phrase, and quick-draw with the most horrifying and hilarious memes has become one of the highlights of this fandom for me. I APPRECIATE YOU, NAOMI, YOU EVIL GENIUS. <33333 And I hope you have a wonderful year ahead!
> 
> Many thanks to SD Wolfpup for a quick read-through on this; any remaining mistakes are entirely mine. And to my comrades in thirst: thank you and fuck you, as always. This is basically your fault.

One thing Brienne has learned over the course of her career as a costume shop owner is that every single conceivable costume has a hilariously ridiculous "sexy" version. She's seen all the usual suspects, of course: sexy nurse. Sexy vampire. Sexy firefighter. Then there are the less-common, more nightmare-inducing ones: sexy hamburger. Sexy teddy bear. Sexy banana (half-peeled for your pleasure). She'd even found a sexy speculum costume one night at a party after several glasses of wine and a double-dog-dare from her friends.

But she's never met anyone who could come anywhere near Jaime Lannister for making even the most mundane costumes seem as filthy as possible.

 _What did he rent today_ , Margaery texts her as Brienne is locking up one night, after Brienne had sent her a _guess who's back_ text a few hours before.

 _A fucking PRINCE costume_ , Brienne texts back with the unique flavor of enraged, thirsty despair that Jaime seems to inspire in her these days. 

_UGH what an ASSHOLE_ , Margaery says, which is followed terrifyingly quickly by a link to a fetish site that has a very unique interpretation on the theme, including a crown and a cape but also quite a lot more chains than all but the most unlucky princes had ever had to endure. At least without consent.

 _You know what these links do to my targeted ads, right_ , Brienne responds. She'd had to explain to her dad the other day why a simple search for golf clubs for him had included ads for men's bathing suits--so tiny as to either be insufficient or insulting--made to look like denim and available in a startling array of colors. She should really know better than to click anything that Margaery sends, but inevitably, the temptation is just too much.

Margaery just sends her back an unrepentant kissy-face emoji, followed by, _You have to ask him out, Brie. The Maiden herself is practically making you a neon sign._

Brienne shakes her head and grins wryly. The weird costume links aren't the only thing that Margaery is relentless about. _Not about to mess up a good fantasy by letting reality get in the way, thank you very much_ , she sends back. Her fantasies about Jaime are _very_ good. And if, earlier--looking at him in a waistcoat that perfectly matched his eyes--one or two of those fantasies had come dangerously close to slipping out of her mouth… well. They hadn't, and that's what matters.

That night, Brienne dreams about rescuing Prince Jaime from some terrible fate. Dreams about his _enthusiastic_ gratitude. She wakes up just before she comes with her cunt clenching around nothing, and pulls her pillow over her face to muffle her yell.

* * * * * * *

The first time Jaime had come into her shop, he'd looked panicked, his hair in disarray like he'd been running his hands through it, his eyes what could have been charitably termed as "unsettled." He'd also looked unsettlingly handsome--what with his beard and his shoulders and his hands and really his whole face, _gods_ \--and for a few seconds, all Brienne had been able to do was blink at him, her usual greeting drying up in her throat.

"Do you have any replica swords?" he'd demanded, not particularly politely.

"Yes, of course," Brienne had answered, somewhat more politely, although not as much as she would have liked. She'd already been able to see where this was going: either he'd grab the first random thing she offered, or he'd assume she knew nothing about the topic and start mansplaining to her about what he was looking for. And even he wasn't handsome enough to prevent her from being preemptively annoyed about it.

It had, as it had turned out, been Option B. "I need a stand-in for a sword called Oathkeeper," he said. "Famous historical sword, about this long--" he held his hands out--"with--"

"Lions on the pommel and guard, with rubies for eyes," she'd finished, and had had the satisfaction of watching his eyes widen. No rubies there, though; his were pure peridot, sharp-cut and glinting even in the less-than-ideal lighting of her shop.

"Yes. You know of it, then."

"You sound surprised," she hadn't been able to help telling him dryly, though she'd worked up a smile to go with it. "We do specialize in accurate historical replicas. There's a sign and everything." She'd pointed to it. Helpfully.

He'd huffed out an impatient breath. "Can I see it, then?"

Brienne had reminded herself of how much she charged for the really high-quality replicas, and had managed another smile. "One moment, please."

When she'd retrieved the sword from the locked case in the back and had laid it on the counter for his inspection, he'd actually had the grace to look impressed for three seconds before starting to complain. "The fuller's wrong."

Her jaw had dropped. "It is _not_."

"Yes, it is. Look." He'd traced the line of it with one long finger. She'd wholeheartedly resented how distracting it was. "It's supposed to run two-thirds of the length of the blade. This is obviously longer."

"It's made directly from the historical specifications," she'd sniffed. She'd pulled one of her reference books from the shelf below the counter and flipped to the relevant page. "Here," she'd said, pointing to an illustration. "See? It does extend a little beyond--"

" _Martin_ ," he'd scoffed, dismissing the author with a wave of his hand. "Scholars in the Lannister line have argued that--"

"That sword is part of my family's history," she'd interrupted frostily. "I know it better than most."

He'd looked intrigued, then frustrated, then resigned. "I'm late, and this will have to do. Just ring it up, will you?"

She'd briefly-- _very_ briefly--considered refusing him, then had decided that taking his money was better than kicking him out. "That will be a hundred and fifty dragons for a three-day rental, please, and I'll need you to sign some paperwork," she'd told him, and he'd groaned and dug out a nondescript company credit card. 

After he'd left, she'd figured she'd never see him again. He had the face and dress of a man who had assistants, and she'd assumed that would be who would return the sword when the rental period was over.

To her shock, he'd brought it back himself, along with a stack of books that had offered a variety of perspectives on the specifications of Oathkeeper, its sister sword Widow's Wail, and their wielders. And had then proceeded to slide on a pair of glasses-- _fuck off_ had been Brienne's first, stunned thought about that situation--and debate with her about all of it for upwards of an hour, while she'd pulled out her own books to support her claims. He hadn't changed her mind about much, and she was fairly sure she hadn't changed his. By the end of it, though, his eyes had been bright with enthusiasm and his arm gestures had grown expansive. 

And then then the bastard had stopped right in the middle of an impassioned point to _grin_ at her, like he was _enjoying_ this, like he was pleased to find a worthy opponent, and that had been the final straw. The beginning of her end. No one who knew that much about medieval Westeros history had any business having a grin like that, and certainly not aiming it at Brienne. The self-preservation mechanisms she'd developed for just these situations were strong, but a thousand fallen knights were proof that even the most carefully-crafted armor had its weak points.

At that point, he'd noticed the clock behind her, and had made a guilty face. "Shit. Late again." Then he'd stuck his hand out. "Jaime Lannister."

She could almost hear the clicking noise in her head. _Lannister_. No wonder he had such strong opinions about Oathkeeper. Incorrect opinions, but still. "Brienne Tarth," she'd answered, taking his proffered hand and possibly slightly overcompensating, grip-wise.

He'd winced a little before managing to transform it into a grin. "I know," he'd answered, and he'd winked at her--not with his eye, but with his _voice_ , which had been somehow even worse. And then, before she'd been able to muster a comeback, he'd been out the door again.

That time, his absence had lasted a week before he'd come back in looking for a Wildling costume. "Not really your style, is it?" she'd asked him, amused. He seemed all gleam and polish, even when he was harried. 

He'd groaned. "I don't want to talk about it."

After that it had been a kilt and full accompanying regalia. After that, flowing Dornish robes. After that, only a mustache, which Brienne had been scared to inquire about further. And then there had been the cowboy hat and spurs.

Eventually, her curiosity had gotten the better of her. "What do you need all these for?" 

"Oh, I'm an exotic dancer," he'd told her blithely, and then had burst out laughing at whatever expression had come over her face while she'd been occupied with wrestling her wildly-careening brain into submission. "I work at the museum," he'd explained, still laughing. "We're trying a new program for kids. More immersive."

"I… ah... how great for them," she'd managed in response, a whole new series of equally attractive mental images overriding the previous ones. He really was a bastard.

"You should come check it out sometime," he'd told her, thumb rubbing across the fabric of the costume in his hand. "Wednesday mornings at 10."

She'd been caught so off-guard that she'd only been able to answer, "Oh. I work Wednesdays. I work… most days, actually." She'd meant it to soften the rejection, but then wondered if it had just ended up sounding like she was trying to say she was unavailable forever, like her calendar was perpetually filled with washing her hair. 

He'd only shrugged and nodded, and asked her how she'd liked the last book he'd loaned her. She'd cursed herself a little, unable to tell if he'd looked disappointed or if that was just her own wishful thinking.

* * * * * * *

It's half an hour to closing when he shows up. As soon as she sees him, she can feel the echo of his hands on her body from the dream she'd had a few nights before, and she's pretty sure that every part of her blushes.

"Sorry," he says, poking his head in the door. "I have a roguish sea captain emergency. Got anything I can use? I know it's late, so feel free to tell me to fuck off."

The way that the word _fuck_ sounds in his mouth is not in any way helpful to her composure. "Not for that, but I reserve the right for another time," she tells him. She's honestly pretty pleased with herself for coming up with that under the circumstances.

He laughs. "Merciful as always, Miss Tarth." He steps inside, then claps his hands together and rubs them in anticipation. "So what have you got?"

Out of the options she shows him, he chooses her favorite, of course: a simple, rough-woven linen shirt and brown breeches, with a red leather doublet that's covered in enough laces and buckles to provide plenty of intriguing possibilities. Truth be told, she's had it mentally earmarked for him for a while now. She's about to point out that she's got a boots and a sword-belt to go with it, as well as a hat that's vaguely piratical--might as well really commit to the inappropriate dreams--when he asks,

"You have a dressing room, right?"

 _Maiden help me._ "I do, yes. Right back there." She gestures with a hand, as if said dressing room is a normal, ordinary thing and not, abruptly, an instrument of her potential destruction. The thing is that she's never seen him in any of the costumes before, and if she's about to, she's not sure if it's going to make things better or much, much worse. On one hand, she isn't sure she'll be able to handle the sight of him looking like he's walked right off the pages of one of her books. On the other hand, _not_ seeing him has always left her imagination free to run wild, and her hormones even wilder.

Maybe it won't fit him.

Maybe he'll look ridiculous in it and they'll both laugh about it and she'll be cured of this terrible crush.

Maybe the suit of armor she's got displayed in one corner will start walking on its own and challenge her to single combat.

Meanwhile, Jaime's giving her one of those knee-weakening smiles. "Thank you," he tells her, before disappearing behind the curtain.

As quickly as she can, Brienne retreats behind the glass counter and busies herself cleaning nonexistent dust and fingerprints off the top of it. The dressing room curtain doesn't quite go all the way to the floor, and she is _not_ going to open herself up to the temptation of trying to catch a glimpse of his pants falling around his ankles. She does have at least some shred of professionalism left. She's tortured enough by just the sounds of rustling, which are unconscionably loud in the otherwise empty shop. She glances at the clock. Two minutes to closing.

"Miss Tarth," he calls out from behind the curtain. Part of her appreciates that he always addresses her so respectfully, and other very specific parts of her can't help considering very different contexts for that phrase. "Would you be willing to give me your professional opinion, here?"

 _Gods_ , is all Brienne can think, half-prayer and half-despairing, before she calls back, faintly, "Sure."

She's walking toward him when he sweeps the curtain open, and he looks.... She swallows hard. He looks… 

"How do I look?" he asks, hands out at his sides. As if he doesn't damn well know the answer. It should piss her off, but there's just the hint of real question lurking around his eyes, like he thinks she might have somehow missed all of _that_. Even his bare feet somehow work with the whole thing, as if she's walked in on him halfway through getting ready for a long day of swashbuckling.

Brienne clears her throat as unobtrusively as possible. "I think you'll have a lot of volunteers to join your crew," she says with forced cheerfulness. And then she almost, _almost_ walks away. But then--because it's getting dark outside and her fingers are aching with the need to touch him and she still can't quite shake that dream, and what is piracy for, anyway, if not for this--she reaches toward the top buckle on his doublet. "You look a bit too respectable, though. May I?"

She watches him carefully, looking for any hint of discomfort. His nostrils flare a bit, and his eyes go more emerald than peridot. He nods his permission. Slowly, she slides the strap free of the buckle and leaves it hanging open, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of his chest hair under the shirt. Just a glimpse. She doesn't dare let her hand linger long enough to see if his heart is hammering as hard as hers is.

"There," she says. Her tongue feels thick in her mouth. "Much more roguish."

He nods again, slower this time. "Brienne," he says then, low, and _gods_. Just those two syllables make her cunt clench and her head spin. He's never called her that before. "Brienne," he repeats, like he's savoring the taste of it. "Can I make a confession?"

And this is the issue with taking a step toward the reality end of the spectrum: Brienne's brain, which has been happily, irredeemably horny the entire time she's been firmly on the fantasy side, suddenly flips to the _everything is the worst_ channel, playing all the hits from her previous relationships and darkest fears. _He's going to tell me he's gay. He's going to say that my feelings are embarrassingly obvious and he doesn't return them. He's going to try to murder me._ That last seems unlikely, given that Margaery has vaguely known Jaime since they were kids and hasn't heard about any homicidal impulses, but still. People can hide stuff.

"Sure," she tells him. She hopes it's not as squeaky in his ears as it is in hers.

It's his turn to swallow hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He looks down at his unbuckled doublet, then back up at her, and his face is soft and open and his eyes are intent and oh, _gods_. "I've been wanting to kiss you for weeks," he says.

She wonders, for a second, if she's still dreaming. It's not that she believes she's so undesirable--she's worked her way beyond that, finally--it's just that her desires so rarely seem to line up with anyone else's that it's a shock to have it actually happen.

"You what?"

"Brienne." He runs a hand over his hair. "You have to know that I… I mean, I came in here one day and you were unwrapping your hands from a boxing class you'd taken over your lunch break. What the hell was I supposed to do with that information?"

The accusation in his voice makes her level her own finger at him. "Hey, you work with _children_. Studying _history_. You came in here one night in a _tuxedo_." She's still not entirely over that; just the thought of it makes her want to hiss at him like an angry cat.

"You used to be a dancer!" he fires back, like it's some kind of devastating death blow, an unbeatable card. "You know every piece of clothing in here like they're members of your family! You've half-memorized books I've never even heard of, and I work at a museum!"

Brienne can't cobble together a coherent response to that right away, too busy repressing the impulse to tilt her head to try to somehow see herself like he apparently sees her. They both breathe heavily into the silence. "So," she says eventually, because despite all her intentions, they very much seem to be doing this now, and she might as well lean into it. "In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that I have also been wanting to kiss you for weeks." She reaches out for that one unbuckled strip of leather again, flattening it against his chest as she traces the line of it. She can feel him suck in a breath, and a slow smile slides over his face like a filthy promise.

"In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that at least half the times I've come in here, it had nothing to do with the museum and I just wanted an excuse to see you," he says. Still trying to one-up her even in this, and she almost has to laugh. Mother have mercy, she _likes_ him.

She moves a tiny step closer. "In the interest of full disclosure, then why the hell didn't you say something?" she asks, but she's smiling.

He makes a _ha_ sound, half-amused, half-tortured. "In the interest of full disclosure, if I can't get your hands on me in the next ten seconds, I might actually--"

She surges forward and seals her mouth to his.

At first, it's nothing but mindless, incendiary glory, the smell of leather from his doublet and the press of his lips that turns quickly into a wicked slide of tongue the instant she opens her mouth for him. He slides one hand around the back of her neck, thumb molding to the space underneath her jaw, and the other one goes to the small of her back and pulls her tighter against him. His beard is wonderfully soft and rough at the same time, sweet friction against her skin.

She's distantly aware of someone laughing; she jerks away from him out of deep-seated impulse, an old scar. But it's only kids walking by outside, teasing each other, the streetlights glinting off the reflectors on their backpacks. Not one of them so much as glances in the windows at the storefront. She lets out a quiet breath.

She can also see the wrong side of her open/closed sign staring back at her, though, so when Jaime goes to tug her back in, she puts a hand on his chest. "Hold on. Before we--" She's not sure exactly what they're about to do, so she just skims right over that. "I need to lock up." Then, because it occurs to her that locks put kind of a new twist on the situation, she goes on, "Is that--are you cool with that? We can go somewhere else if you'd rather."

He grins and tucks her hair behind her ear. "I've had more than a few fantasies involving this dressing room, so yes, if you're comfortable with it, do what you've got to do and then get back here, please."

Well, that's very intriguing information. She presses a quick but fervent kiss to his lips. "Will do." Her head still fuzzy, she stumbles a little as she makes her way toward the front counter; she can hear him snickering, and she flips him off over her shoulder. That gets an outright laugh, peppering its way down her spine while she slides the key into the lock and secures it. She flips the sign to _Closed_ with a decisive slap, then tosses the keys onto the counter and hurries back to the dressing room. She yanks the curtain shut just as Jaime reaches for her and tumbles her against the wall.

The room--such as it is--is small and the lighting has resisted all of Brienne's attempts to improve it, but Jaime doesn't seem to mind either of those things, applying his mouth with fevered dedication to the line of her throat. "I can't believe I made it this long," he tells her. "I've been worthless at work, my friends have all been telling me that I need to ask you out or shut up about you already."

Brienne laughs breathlessly. "You know Margaery Tyrell, right? She's been sending me 'sexy' versions of every one of your costumes, every time I tell her that you've come in."

He pulls away long enough to arch an eyebrow. "Oh, really? Care to elaborate on any of those?"

Brienne thinks of the barely-dick-covering kilt that Margaery had dug up, presumably from somewhere deep within one of the hells. "Absolutely not," she says firmly. Then, partially to distract him--by now, she recognizes the light in his eyes that he gets when he's about to chase down a topic--and partially because she very much wants to know, "You mentioned some fantasies about this dressing room, though; I want to hear more about those."

"Oh," he says. There's that slow smile again. "Well. I could give you a demonstration." 

Brienne pretends to consider it. "I mean, I suppose that is your job." 

He catches his bottom lip between his teeth. "I'm very passionate about my work. Let's start here." He frames her face with his hands, leans in, and kisses her like he's researching her. Like he's got all the time in the world to pore over every reference, every hint, every rumor, every half-forgotten myth of kissing Brienne Tarth. 

All these weeks, she's been watching him walk out the door, and they could have been doing this instead? Past Brienne has a lot to answer for. 

By the time they come up for air, she's nearly boneless against him, all the curves and hollows of her body mapped to all of his. "I'll make sure to leave a positive comment card," she manages when she can use her mouth for speech again. He grins at her with a mixture of cockiness and… _fondness_ is really the only word she can think of for it, that and a sort of awed delight. Warmth spreads through her chest. It also radiates down toward the more urgent heat between her legs, and she reaches out to trace a finger along the ends of his hair where it's hanging over his temples. She's normally a one-step-at-a-time kind of person, but that kiss--that kiss had been exception-worthy. She takes a deep breath. "And if I wanted to know about a fantasy that was a little more... extensive?"

His jaw clenches and he makes a helpless, guttural noise; she can feel his cock twitch where it's pressed against her pelvis. "Gods be good, Brienne. I was going to at least take you to dinner or something first."

She lifts a shoulder. "I ate dinner an hour ago. We could do dessert later, though." She can't help laughing a little at the look on his face, nearly the same look he'd given her when she'd taken him into the back room to let him look at her small collection of actual historical artifacts. She re-settles the front of his doublet; somewhere in all of this, a second and third buckle have come open. "That said," she goes on, just in case, looking him in the eye so he knows she means it, "no pressure; we can take things slow if you want."

At that, it's his turn to laugh, low and rumbling against her chest. He leans in and scrapes his teeth along her earlobe, one hand sliding up underneath the long, loose shirt she's wearing, thumb stroking her bare hip just above the waistline of her leggings. "What I want," he tells her, "is to get you into half the costumes in this shop, and then I want to get you out of them. I want to see you as a queen, and come to you as your loyal servant, on my knees. I want to see you as the comrade-in-arms that I can't quite keep my hands off of in our shared tent at night. I want to see you as a mermaid, as a forest goddess, as the Warrior, as a tavern wench who blushes when she brings me my ale." Then he presses a kiss to her temple and rests his cheek against hers, his voice going even warmer and richer. "And when we're done with all of that, I want to take Brienne Tarth out for dessert, and--if I'm very lucky--bring her breakfast in the morning before she comes to my museum with me to tell me all the things she thinks need to be corrected in my new exhibit. She'll be wrong, of course, but I do love to hear her make her arguments."

She snorts at the last bit, though she also can't quite believe that, after that little monologue, her underwear has neither caught fire nor spontaneously flung itself to the floor at his feet. "You were doing so well there for a minute. Though to be fair, I'm not sure that we have time for _all_ of that."

He chuckles and puts enough space between them that he can look at her. His eyes are bright and crinkled at the corners, amusement and heat tangled together. "Hey, you said fantasies; no sense in letting a little thing like temporal restrictions get in the way."

"Fair point. I only see one problem." She slips one hand into the softness of his hair and tilts her pelvis forward against his. His hand tightens at her hip and his pupils go wider.

"You know how I hate to disagree with you," he says--Brienne snorts again--"but I have to tell you, I don't see a single problem with anything that's happening right now."

She rolls her torso a bit, enjoying the soft squeak of leather from his doublet. "The problem is that now that I've finally got you here, there's no way I'm letting you out of my reach long enough to change my clothes."

Her experience with sexy talk is limited, and she's a little worried that the shift in direction will put him off--maybe the clothes are a big part of it for him--but he only shrugs again. "Well, then I'll just have to use my imagination." There's so much gravel in it that she can feel it between her legs, like his voice is some sort of vibrator all on its own. "I've gotten very good at it, you know. I mean," and he twists some of the fabric of her shirt between his fingers, "this isn't so different from what I'm wearing, anyway. You could be a rival captain who's so overcome with lust for me that she's already taken off her coat."

She smiles and raises an eyebrow. "Or I defeated you in combat, and now I've had you brought to my cabin."

"Ahhhhh." He gives her a wicked grin. "And you have me entirely at the mercy of your pleasure."

A low sound comes out of her throat. "Yes." As much as she wants to keep spinning out the fantasy, she has to kiss him again for that, hot and open-mouthed, the row of his buckles a small, sharp constellation from her stomach to her sternum. The kiss goes on and on until just the friction of their clothes isn't enough; she closes her hands over his, where they're resting on her hips, and drags them up, under her shirt. He groans into her mouth.

"What do you want from me, _captain_?" he asks her.

She nudges him back so that she can get her hands down to the hem of her shirt. She starts to lift it, then raises her eyebrows at him, checking in. The eagerness in his nod gives her a thrill that goes straight down to her cunt. It feels a little bit surreal, that an hour ago she'd been contemplating what kind of tea she'd make to go with her nightly bath and now she's here, in this tiny room, with this man and his _face_. She pulls the shirt off over her head, realizes too late that the bra she's wearing is not exactly her newest, and goes to unhook it as quickly as she can.

He reaches behind her back and catches her hands. "Wait. Let me. Please?"

It's her turn to nod, and his fingers work the hooks deftly, tracing over the small indentations that they leave behind on her skin. He slides the straps off her shoulders and down her arms, a trail of goosebumps rippling in their wake. When the bra has joined her shirt on the floor, he stares at her exposed tits with a level of rapt attention that's inversely proportional to her cup size. She can feel her nipples tighten as he watches.

With him still in his costume, it's a little easier for her to get into character. "You fought bravely today," she tries; she feels awkward saying it, but his eyes flicker up to her face and the flare of heat in them, the flash of his tongue over his parted lips, is more than enough encouragement. "But now you're my prisoner."

"Yes," he breathes. His mouth curls just slightly at one corner--the same joy of a shared game that he gets sometimes when he's arguing with her.

"So you'd better please me," she goes on.

 _"Yes,"_ he repeats, emphatically enough that he breaks character to laugh at himself a bit.

She grins at him, then smoothes her expression and tilts her chin up. "So get to work," she says, and arches her back in case he's unclear on his marching orders.

He obeys like he's been unleashed, both hands going to her breasts, thumb stroking over one nipple while his mouth closes hungrily over the other. Brienne's head thumps back against the wall; she realizes that over his shoulder, she can see them in the mirror, the broad swath of oxblood leather stretched across his shoulders, standing out in vivid contrast to her flushing skin. Her breast fits so easily into the large hollow of his palm. The sight of it is as much of a shock to her senses as the dedication of his lips and tongue and hands, and she moans and spreads her legs to fit them around one of his. He hums against her skin and nudges his knee forward until it's pressed against the wall; her eyes close as she sinks down on the hard muscle of his thigh. The thought streaks through her mind that museum work must be more physical than she'd thought. 

She just means to do it once, just to take the pressure off, but once she's started, she can't seem to stop, rutting against him while he lavishes attention on her breasts like his life really does depend on it. Each thrust steals a little bit more of her breath, coils the delicious tension behind her clit tighter and tighter. "Jaime," she gasps. 

He looks up at her, lips wet and plump, eyes half-glazed. "Yes?"

"Tell me," she says. "Tell me what you're going to do to earn your keep."

His eyelids flutter all the way shut, and he kisses her, messy and desperate. Those beautiful, brilliant buckles on his doublet are perfectly cool against her overheated skin. He mouths his way along her jaw until he reaches her ear again.

"I've given this a lot of thought, so I'm very prepared," he murmurs, and fuck, yes, that voice is what she needs, like dark chocolate and good whiskey. She grinds down on his thigh. "I'll wake you up every morning with my tongue between your legs. You can keep me chained here during the day, waiting for you to use me as you will. You can ride me hard and fast until the only word I know is your name. At night, I'll fuck you under the stars." He slides both hands down to palm her ass, giving her extra leverage, pulling her harder against him each time she drives her hips forward. She can feel the rigid line of his cock against her, too, hear his breath getting short. "And every time, I'll tell you how lucky I am to be the one making you come."

"Jaime," she moans. She can't remember ever feeling so powerful and so overwhelmed at the same time. Or so turned on, like her whole body is brimming with pleasure, ready to burst.

"I mean it, Brienne," he tells her, ragged now. "I could have walked into anyone's shop that day. The fact that it was yours, and now I get to see you like this, hear you, _feel_ you, gods, I can feel how wet you are even through our clothes, I--" He leans up to kiss her again, and everything that's been building inside her overflows, cascading down over her body like liquid sunlight, leaving her limp and gasping while he shudders and grips her tight.

He keeps kissing her for a little while after--sweet, slow kisses where she can feel his smile against her lips. She'd be content to keep doing that for hours, but after a few minutes, he sighs and levers himself off the wall, making a rueful face in the general direction of his crotch.

She looks down, and realizes: _oh._ Heat rushing into her face, she looks back up at him while laughter threatens at the back of her throat.

"Haven't done that since I was a teenager," he says, mildly chagrined. "And I think I might have violated the rental agreement--sorry about that." Though truth be told, he looks much too smug to be all that sorry. 

She dissolves into helpless snickering. "You definitely did. But you can keep the costume." She slides her hands up his chest, over his shoulders. "I think this one was pretty much made for you anyway."

"I'll save it for future use." He waggles his eyebrows at her, which just makes her laugh harder even as she's doing an internal, gleeful shimmy at the idea that they're going to do this again. He bends down to pick her shirt up off the floor and kisses each of her nipples one more time before he hands it to her. She shivers at the scrape of his beard over her sensitive skin.

She pulls her shirt on over her head, and they take turns in the tiny bathroom in the back; Brienne lets him go first, given his... situation. She follows after, surveying her flushed face and obvious sex hair in the mirror and trying to internalize the fact that she just dry-humped Jaime Lannister in her dressing room, and she can't wait to do it again. Not to mention the fact that the reality had soundly kicked the ass of every fantasy she's ever indulged in.

When she emerges, he's leaning against the counter on one elbow. He smiles when he sees her. "Ready for some dessert?"

She _thinks_ he's talking about food. Food first, anyway. "Absolutely." When she gets close enough, she leans in to kiss him, just because she can. He makes a pleased, surprised noise into her mouth.

When they break apart, he sinks his teeth into the edge of his grin again. "Well. Not exactly how I was expecting things to go tonight, but I'm certainly very glad they did."

She grins back and slides her hand into his. "Agreed on all counts."

"One more confession, though," he says as he hefts the bag with his discarded costume in it.

She raises an eyebrow. "What's that?" Is he _blushing_? While also smirking? What the hell is that?

"I'm not really doing a talk on sea captains tomorrow," he admits. "I just saw your face when I mentioned being related to Gerion Lannister, and I connected some dots and figured it was worth a shot."

Her mouth drops open. Given the results, she can't really be mad; still, she has to at least keep up appearances. "How dare you."

"Look," he protests, "you didn't go for my casual 'come check out my museum' gambit, I had to bring out the big guns. Besides, it worked, didn't it? Though after what just happened, it's probably just as well that I don't have to talk about it in front of children for a while."

"I should hope not," she says, aiming for crisp and disapproving, but she can't quite keep from laughing at the _highly_ inappropriate absurdity of it all. She nudges him with her hip. "For the record, if you'd led with the 'tongue between your legs' thing, you could have saved us both a lot of time."

That sparks another one of those flares of interest, like a candle flame leaping, and his grin goes wicked. "Noted." He's looking at her like he's seriously starting to question the "food" definition of dessert, as well as evaluate the structural integrity of her display counter.

It's tempting--extremely tempting, actually--but she's worked up an appetite in the last hour, and besides, there are too many windows here. She tugs on his hand instead. "However, to pay for your transgression, you're buying dessert." 

"You're the captain," he says, and kisses her hand with a flourish as they walk toward the door.


End file.
